


& rain will make the flowers grow

by camellialice



Series: when tomorrow comes [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Reincarnation, apologies for the conspicuous absence of Bahorel and Feuilly, shameless fluff, the title sounds angsty but it's really not, this is my first time writing for this fandom please be kind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:45:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camellialice/pseuds/camellialice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is haunted by nightmares, Grantaire is, well, Grantaire, Courfeyrac can't shake an odd sense of guilt, Jehan's writing weird poetry and Eponine just wants everyone to stop being idiots and kiss already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	& rain will make the flowers grow

Enjolras wakes up covered in sweat and blood, and can’t breathe until he realizes the blood isn’t actually real.

Another dream, another nightmare, another haunting fiction where he imagines his friends all dying, one after another, gunned down in a battle he’s never heard of.  They come almost every night now, bits and pieces of what he’s sure must be a larger story.  Flashes of scenes, screams, gunfire and sobbing.  It’s awful.  It’s gory.  It won’t go away.

He turns to his side and sees his cell phone lit up with five new messages, all from Grantaire, who texted him drunk from Courfeyrac’s party.  Enjolras had left early, exhausted from lack of sleep, and proceeded to have yet another restless night.

His nightmares always end the same way: He’s in a dark room and about to die, when a voice shouts, “Long live the Republic!”  And then suddenly someone is next to him and asking, “Do you permit it?”

It’s that voice that haunts Enjolras, even during the day, an unrecognizable stranger who must have burned with some kind of fiery passion, must’ve had something worth dying for.  Maybe it was the Republic, maybe it was even Enjolras.  He admires that, admires the way the voice never shakes, not even with guns aimed at his chest.  To die for something you believe in is an admirable way to go, even if you are a fictitious person of one’s dreams.

Enjolras likes to think he has that kind of passion (he does), likes to think he’d do as much for his own beliefs (he would), wishes he knew who dies beside him every night.

Combeferre is knocking on his door, offering breakfast.

Enjolras deletes each text from Grantaire without reading them and gets up. 

~

Grantaire wakes up many hours later on Eponine’s sofa, dashes to the toilet, and vomits.

When he’s finally feeling well enough, he staggers to her kitchen table and drops himself onto a chair.

“You were dead drunk last night,” Gavroche offers helpfully from across the table, and Grantaire leans his head against the cool plastic of the table.

“D’you really love Enjolras that much?” Gavroche continues, undeterred.  Grantaire closes his eyes tightly.  “Only you talked about him a lot.  It was really funny, actually, until Ponine made me go to bed.”

“Finish your cereal and go away,” Eponine calls from the doorway.

“I don’t want it anymore,” Gavroche complains, and slides off his chair, disappearing in a flash of blue.

“How do you feel?” Eponine asks, lifting Grantaire’s head and taking his temperature.  “I didn’t wanna send you home, considering the state you were in…  Do you remember anything?”

“No,” Grantaire mumbles.

“That’s probably for the better.”  At the sight of Grantaire’s confused expression, she explains,  “You and Enjolras had a huge fight.”

“Oh no,” Grantaire moans.  “Does he hate me?”

Eponine sighs.  “Of course he doesn’t hate you, doofus.  Everyone can see that, except you and him, apparently.”

“Fuuuuuuuck,” Grantaire groans.

“Want some Advil?”

“Yes please.  And coffee.  And death.”

“Would you like fries with that?”

“Fuck you.”

“I love you too.”

She gets up to start the coffeemaker and he reaches across the table for his cell.  No new messages, but he apparently sent plenty last night, including some to Enjolras.

**Grantaire:** Enjolras pleasse

**Grantaire:** Don’tr hate nme

**Grantaire:** I’m really realyl soyrry pleasee come back

**Grantaire:** I thnik i love you

**Grantaire:** It’s really hared to t ype on this thing why are all yhe lettes so s mall

Grantaire wants to curl up on Eponine’s couch and die. 

~

They go to a club, which is actually rather fun, if only in that it provides the opportunity for Eponine to laugh at Jehan and Enjolras behind their backs (and dance and drink as well, but that’s beside the point).  She giggles softly at the two of them, sitting by the bar: Jehan looks like a lovesick puppy, and Enjolras like he’s about to go on a murdering spree.  She follows their gazes to the center of the dance floor, where both Courfeyrac and Grantaire are grinding enthusiastically with a pair of very attractive, very curvy girls.

Jehan looks away, and Enjolras tightens his grip on his water bottle, crushing one side of it.

It’s officially time for Eponine to intervene.

She downs the rest of her drink, stands up, evades the drunken reach of Montparnasse (what a creep) and weaves her way over to the downtrodden pair.

“Sup,” she begins, leaning against the bar, and Enjolras eyes her warily.

“Nothing,” he shoots back defensively, too quickly to be subtle.

“Look,” she sighs, because it’s too goddamn late in the evening to be delicate about this.  “If you guys are going to be all butt hurt about it, just go ask your boyfriends to dance.”

She’s barraged by cries of “He’s not my boyfriend!” from both of them, and only responds by raising an eyebrow and ordering another drink.

The song changes and Jehan, thoughtfully, rises and drifts towards Courfeyrac, who beams at the sight of him.  Score one for Eponine.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Enjolras repeats emphatically, this time just to her.  “I don’t have… feelings for him.  And it doesn’t bother me that he’s dancing with someone.”

“Not even a little bit?”

Enjolras hesitates, and doesn’t exactly answer her question.  “What does bother me is that he keeps wasting himself—I mean look at him, drinking and dancing when he could be doing really great things.  He’s brilliant, he just doesn’t care about any of it.”

“Uh huh.”  Eponine declines to mention what she knows Grantaire does care about deeply.  “Have you tried telling him that?”

“Of course,” Enjolras huffs.

“Nicely?”

Enjolras is silent.

“And you really aren’t bothered to see him dancing with that girl?”

Again, silence.

“Well,” she shrugs, “speak now or forever hold your peace, because I think she’s turning around to kiss him.”

Enjolras turns white.

She sips her drink and watches Jehan and Courfeyrac, giving Enjolras space to think.  They are dancing a merry sort of jig, bouncing and twirling about with their hands clasped, and stand out exceptionally from the rest of the grinding, pulsing crowd.  They look radiant.

“Having fun yet, Apollo?”  At the sound of Grantaire’s voice, Eponine resists the urge to whip around, and instead eavesdrops from her seat as Grantaire slides next to Enjolras.

“So much fun,” Enjolras responds dryly.  “Who’s the girl?”

“Oh, I dunno.  Someone.  I can’t remember if she had a name.”

“Oh.”

Eponine smirks into her glass at the note of satisfaction in Enjolras’s voice, and looks up in time to see a new figure wade through the dance floor to the bar.  He’s gawky and geeky and walks more like a marionette than an actual person.  He’s an unusual person, and a familiar one.

“Ponine?” Grantaire calls her back to the real world.  “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah sure,” she mumbles, and then shakes her head to clear her thoughts and turns to him.

“I swear I know that guy,” she whispers. 

~

His name is Marius Pontmercy, and he’s adorable.

He moves in with Courfeyrac within a couple of weeks, to the dismay of Jehan and Eponine but to the delight of Cosette, who lives about a block away from Courfeyrac’s apartment.

Cosette has had boyfriends before, of course, but this time is different.  Marius is different.  He is exactly what she has been waiting for, what she has always imagined to be the perfect boyfriend.  They fit together like two lost pieces of the same puzzle, and after a week of dating they know each other as well as if they’ve been together for years.

“Does it count as a honeymoon period if we act like an old married couple?” Cosette wonders aloud, and Jehan ponders this.

“Just call it love,” he eventually decides.  “Because that’s what it is.”

“Soulmates, maybe,” Cosette says.  “That’s what it feels like.  Like we were meant to be together, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jehan agrees thoughtfully, and Cosette knows whom he’s thinking of.

“I’m sorry,” she rushes to say, “I know you—“

“No, it’s quite alright,” Jehan laughs, cheerful as ever.  “What you two have is beautiful.  Watching you be happy together makes me happy.”

Cosette smiles, and returns to braiding his hair. 

~

Jehan’s poetry has lost its floral qualities, its lightheartedness.  His obsession (and it is an obsession, Courfeyrac insists) with love is being gradually eclipsed with darkness and loneliness that Jehan doesn’t recognize and is baffled by.  He’s had a hard time in the past, sure (how could he not, going to a high school like he did and dressing like he does?) but the memories of those feelings are nothing compared to what is pouring through his pen onto the soft pages of his notebook.

It scares him, to be honest.  He’s losing his voice, himself.

One of his poems describes the emotional trauma of entrapment, another, the pain of distance from his friends, but Jehan has always kept his friends close by his side.

He doesn’t show these poems to anyone.  When Courfeyrac asks if he is okay, Jehan smiles brightly and kisses his cheek.  (Courfeyrac blushes, and no one says anything, because this is Jehan, right? And Jehan kisses everyone.)

So Jehan keeps writing, because he can’t not write poetry, and worries and wonders and smiles when his friends ask what’s wrong, because he is Jehan and that is what he does.

~

Jehan expresses himself through his writing, Grantaire through his art, Enjolras through his words, but Courfeyrac has nothing.  He doesn’t know what to do about the intense bouts of sadness that sometimes hit him during meetings, the silence that consumes him when he goes home and stares at his bedroom ceiling, the way his stomach flutters when Jehan looks at him and the guilt that weighs heavily on him when the poet seems sad.

That last one he can’t even explain, let alone express.  So far as he knows, he has done nothing to hurt Jehan (he would never) and yet… sometimes, his mind wanders to Jehan and he hates himself and doesn’t know why.

When Jehan kisses his cheek, dances in the street, reads a recent poem or even just smiles (brilliantly, like the sun is bursting out through his face), Courfeyrac feels his heart swell and his stomach sink, and part of him wants to reach out and hold the poet while another part feels he ought to turn away.  He doesn’t deserve Jehan, he doesn’t deserve to even be witness to the way Jehan views the world (rosy and bright, beautiful and full of love), he lost all such privilege a long time ago, when he did something that he now can’t even remember. 

It preys on him infinitely, and when Jehan kisses his cheek, Courfeyrac turns red, and hates himself. 

~

Grantaire has ruined another meeting, and Enjolras is in a foul mood.

“Could we just switch locations and not tell him about it?” he moans, sprawled dramatically across the couch.  Combeferre and Courfeyrac both groan.

“I’m kidding,” Enjolras reassures them unnecessarily.  Combeferre knows that no one would ever want to abandon the Musain, least of all him.  “It’s just that he’s so bothersome.  It’s as if he makes a hobby of annoying me. Why? What’s the point?”

Combeferre has heard this too many times to count.  He can’t even remember all of the innumerable occasions on which Enjolras has cursed Grantaire’s presence, but he knows Enjolras couldn’t bear to lose him.  Courfeyrac is clearly thinking the same thing, and looks over at Combeferre every once in a while as if asking what to do.

“Can’t we just get rid of him?”  Enjolras complains.

Courfeyrac sighs, more loudly than was perhaps necessary.

“What?” Enjolras asks suspiciously, sitting up.

Courfeyrac looks to Combeferre, who most sincerely does not want to get dragged into another of these arguments and instead buries himself in his philosophy textbook.  Courfeyrac sighs again, and slides on the sofa beside Enjolras, placing his hands on the other man’s shoulders.

“My dear Enjolras,” he says gently, “you are an idiot.”

Combeferre looks up in time to see his friend’s shocked expression, and has to stifle his own chuckle.

~

By the next meeting, though, Enjolras has had enough.

“Could you please just leave?”

A pained expression flashes across Grantaire’s face before he shuts it down and laughs.  “At least you’re blunt about it,” he jokes.  “No beating about the bush this time, you just come right out and say what you mean.  It’s what I’ve always admired about you, Apollo.  The way you aren’t afraid of kicking people to the ground if you don’t like them.”

That’s totally unfair, so Enjolras explodes at him.  “You show up late, you distract our members, you reek of alcohol and contribute nothing, you make fun of our ideals and mock our methods, and then you want us to accept you?  Why should we?  You’re a hopeless, cynical, sarcastic drunk, and you take away more than you add!”

Grantaire is standing too now, and he makes his way to the front of the room to face Enjolras.  “Because,” he says calmly, “It’s all _bullshit._  You can’t honestly believe this nonsense about making the world a better place—I mean, come on, Enjolras, you’re an intelligent young man, you of all people should understand that the world is shit, and nothing you do is going to change it.”

“That’s not true,” Enjolras seethes.

“Really? Because trust me, I’ve seen more of the world than you have, and it fucking sucks!”  Grantaire is getting louder now, angrier, and something about him seems personally invested in the argument.  “You put your faith in something and it comes back to bite you in the ass.  I’ve seen it over and over again, and just because you act like the messiah and blab about a better tomorrow doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen to you.”

“Then why?” Enjolras spits out, and he’s burning with rage, at this infuriating man and also a bit at himself, though he doesn’t know for what reason.  “Why do you keep coming, if you don’t believe in any of this?”

“I believe in you!  And maybe you’re stupid and idealistic but you make me want to believe in all the utopian crap you spew.  And I don’t even know why, because underneath it all, you’re just another bastard, aren’t you?” Grantaire storms out of the café, slamming the door behind him along with a gust of cold air, which Enjolras barely feels because he’s still flushed with anger.

What Grantaire had said made no sense, barely answered his question, gnaws at something deep inside Enjolras.  And now Grantaire is walking away, into the street, and something about the sight of him leaving makes Enjolras react without even stopping to think.

He follows him outside and yells after him, “What does that even mean?”

Grantaire whips around, and his eyes are rimmed with red.

“It’s because I fucking love you, okay?”

Enjolras freezes, unable to respond.  Grantaire scoffs, but it sounds more rueful than derisive.

“It’s not like it’s some sort of secret, alright?” His voice cracks.  “I love you.  I always have.”

And Enjolras can’t move, can’t breathe, and all of a sudden he’s struck with an image—no, a memory; it crashes into him like a torrent of cold water: a recollection of that same dark room from his dreams, his vision stained red with blood, a calloused hand in his and a soft voice asking a question—no, _the_ question, the one that has haunted him for months, that makes him feel like he’s been torn in two and stitched back together again… 

~

Grantaire knows.  Grantaire has always known, since the moment he saw Enjolras in the café, glorious and shining and everything that Grantaire had fallen in love with so many years before (a love that never really died, not even when bullets pierced his heart and he collapsed to the hardwood floor, soaked with scarlet).

And Enjolras is standing there, looking like the floor gave way beneath him, and Grantaire is struck by a revelation.

He wants it to be over.

He wants to stop pining over this unreachable god, wants to stop feeling like a piece of worthless shit, wants to stop the memories of his friends’ screams (because he never forgot, can’t ever forget).  He wants it all to float away, wants to escape the chains that bind him to this never ending cycle of love and pain and heartbreak, wants to go home and cry and sleep forever and not have to worry about it all anymore.

He draws in a deep breath and exhales hoarsely.  “Whatever you have to say, please, just say it.  I swear to you that nothing you say now could hurt me any more than I am already hurting.”

Enjolras just looks at him like he’s seeing him for the first time, so Grantaire bites back his tears and turns away.  If he’s gonna do this, he thinks, he’ll do it with dignity (at least until he’s safe at home, then he’ll drink until he passes out on the couch).

Before he can take a step he’s caught up in a strong grip and Enjolras is turning him around again, fingers digging into Grantaire’s upper arm.

“Grantaire,” he murmurs, eyes drinking in Grantaire’s features as if there is something worth seeing there.

“That’s my name,” Grantaire chokes out, forcing a wry smile.  He’s not sure if it’s remotely successful.

“It’s you, it’s really you.”  Enjolras brings his spare hand up to cradle Grantaire’s cheek and Grantaire hesitates a moment, savoring the warmth against his face, before tearing away.  “It’s always been you,” Enjolras says as if to himself, and Grantaire can’t tell if he’s being made fun of, so he just leaves.

He finally, finally walks away from it all, and for once, he almost feels free.

And then a voice, an unmistakable voice, strong and clear, calls out from behind him: “Do you permit it?”

And Grantaire couldn’t take another step even if he wanted to.

He slowly turns his head (and Jesus Christ, all this turning back and forth is making him dizzy, or maybe it’s the way Enjolras is looking at him, like he’s the only one in the room, the world).

“You remember,” he manages, and then real tears are streaming down his face but it’s okay because in a few strides Enjolras has caught up to him and is holding him like he’s something precious, fragile, even, holding on to him as if otherwise he might disappear.  Grantaire looks up, wiping away at his eyes, and thinks of how he’d never really want to disappear, especially if that meant leaving _this_ behind.  But before he can even finish that thought he’s swept into a kiss, and warm hands are cradling his face and his own hands are finding their way into the trademark tangle of beautiful blonde curls and Jehan might be clapping somewhere in the distant room encircling their own private universe, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, except Enjolras’s mouth against his own and the knowledge that he is remembered. 

~

“What was that about?” Combeferre leans over to ask.  “I mean, I’m happy for them, but…”

“No idea,” Courfeyrac whispers back.  “But thank god, they finally got their shit together, I’ve been waiting for this forever.”

“Just savor the moment, ‘Ferre,” Eponine advises from Combeferre’s other side, taking his hand in hers.  Courfeyrac raises his eyebrow at this development, but doesn’t say anything.

“Get some!” Courfeyrac instead whoops at the couple in the middle of the street, and Grantaire flips him off without detaching his lips from Enjolras’s.

“I’m going inside, before I catch a cold,” Joly grumbles, so Bossuet takes off his jacket to give to his boyfriend.

Cosette and Marius, meanwhile, have taken advantage of the distraction to make out as well, certain in the knowledge that no one is looking their way.  (Courfeyrac doesn’t say anything.)

And Jehan… Jehan is clapping, delightedly, and happens to look over when Courfeyrac is watching him with a smile.  He flushes and grins back, and Courfeyrac’s heart warms and then—

_and then there is silence, and a single gunshot pierces the air_ , and Courfeyrac opens his eyes to see Jehan frowning slightly.  He runs over to the poet and hugs him tightly, and Jehan adjusts himself in Courfeyrac’s arms enough to look up at him, his eyes full of questions.

“The barricade,” Courfeyrac answers, and Jehan’s mouth falls open, his eyes wide, as if he’s only just remembered.  He probably has.  Courfeyrac might be sick.

“I—“ Jehan begins, and can’t finish.

Courfeyrac is now tearing up so he just says “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” and buries his face in Jehan’s shoulder, Jehan, who is pulling away and Courfeyrac doesn’t blame him, who would, he died alone and afraid outside the barricade and Courfeyrac should have done something, anything…

But soft hands are lifting Courfeyrac’s face and big eyes are looking into his and a gentle voice is saying, “It’s okay, I’m here, we’re both here,” so he kisses Jehan, beautiful Jehan who forgives him and loves him and the guilt, at last, is slipping away.

~

There’s a fuckton of kissing going on, but Eponine isn’t even bitter about it.  She doesn’t so much as glance at Marius (whose face is smashed into Cosette’s), but instead smiles into Combeferre’s lips as the world she once knew comes rushing back to her.  She remembers pain, starvation, blood, misery, and death, and she can’t even pretend to say she misses it.  What she’s got here is a slightly dysfunctional and majorly incestuous family of friends, and it’s really all she’s ever wanted.

It starts drizzling and Joly shrieks, causing Combeferre to break away from the kiss and laugh against her cheek, so she starts laughing too, and then she hears a chorus of laughter, and everyone looks up and truly sees each other for the first time in over a hundred years.  There’s laughing and hugging and a bit of crying, too as the light pitter patter of raindrops grows into a downpour, and then Jehan’s dancing in the street and Courfeyrac is beside him and Feuilly and Bahorel run to join in.  Eponine grabs Combeferre’s hand and steers him towards the impromptu dance party and he goes hesitantly but happily, consenting to waltz with her in the rain.  Enjolras looks on from the side while Grantaire nuzzles against him and Eponine takes a moment to reflect on how infinitely happy she is.

In their former lives, they lived and fought and died by each other, but now they love and laugh and dance together, and here, in the rain, they start over. 

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be just e/r but then everyone else happened to it? (blame courfeyrac, he kept popping up where he wasn't invited) (i guess in the end i'm really glad everybody was there)  
> sorry it's so sickeningly sweet (i'm not sorry at all)  
> thanks so much for reading! like it says in the tags, i've never written for les mis before, so i'm really sorry if anyone is ooc. i tried my best?  
> infinite thanks to [freddie](http://smarterwinchester.tumblr.com) for being an awesome beta:3  
> i love you all, and if you want to contact me, my tumblr is [mydearoswin](http://mydearoswin.tumblr.com)  
> xxoo


End file.
